


Getting On With It

by StarlightAndFireflies



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It, Fluff, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, I'm the captain now, John finally apologizes, John is a Mess, Love Confessions, M/M, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Moffat do not interact, Non-Graphic Smut, Parentlock, Relationship Discussions, Romance, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it, no tfp, two years after season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:29:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23882338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAndFireflies/pseuds/StarlightAndFireflies
Summary: “What is it?” Sherlock finally asked, staring into his tea.“Nothing,” John said quickly.After all, he could hardly just come out and say the truth:It’s just hit me again, all this. I’ve realized I’m here, and you’re here, and for some reason you don’t hate me, and yet I’ve got no bloody idea where to go from here.I want to do right by you but it’s hitting me as if for the first time that I’ve no clue how to do that, even though it’s what you deserve.Rated M for chapter 2
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 54
Kudos: 323





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I found this buried in my documents, kind of completely forgot I had written it last year, but it's decent enough that I figured I might as well post it. That said, I did very little editing, and I'm sure there are dozens of fics that tackle this same idea and do it better, but here's my meager contribution to the S4 fix-it collection.

When John got in, rather late that night — double shifts would be the death of him — all was quiet in the flat. He paused at the door as he moved to shrug off his coat and surveyed the room. 

The air was still, the curtains were drawn, and the shadows gave the space a muted appearance. The only sound and light came from the fireplace, where the remnants of flames were crackling. A soft golden-red light suffused the area around it, which was where John finally spotted Sherlock. 

His flatmate, best friend — and so much more, if John were being honest — looked rather cramped in his chair. Legs tucked beneath his body, which was angled to the side, one arm cradling his head on the armrest and the other draped across his waist. It didn't look like the most comfortable of positions. And yet, Sherlock was sound asleep, breaths slow and soft. 

He looked like a cat, John thought as he took off his shoes and closed the door. Like a sleepy house cat who had run itself ragged chasing mice and scratching chair legs and had finally found a safe, warm corner to curl up in.

On the floor next to the chair sat a baby monitor, though John could hear no noises from the other end, just a quiet hum. Rosie was sound asleep too, and John smiled as he imagined Sherlock putting her to bed — always so gentle and doting, in a way John had never believed Sherlock could be until Rosie happened.

John approached the chair, starting to feel a little invasive but also too curious to care much. Sherlock didn’t react to the sound of John’s muffled footsteps other than to shift his head ever so slightly where it rested on his crooked arm. A near-soundless huff passed the man’s lips, almost like a sigh, and then he was settled again, at rest. He looked impossibly small and childlike.

Seeing Sherlock like this was a rare thing, John knew. So often this man had all his walls up, even with John. He could not recall the last time he had seen Sherlock sleep so openly and so deeply. Sleeping at a reasonable hour was one of the many things, in fact, that John could not remember Sherlock doing for some time. Sleeping, smiling, laughing, teasing John—all these were distant memories now.

Of course, John had done so much to have been denied the privilege of witnessing these things. The violence and anger and distrust he had shown Sherlock since the detective’s return, since Mary’s treachery was revealed, and since Mary had died, had pushed him to such a distance from Sherlock that it was remarkable for John to even be here at all, living in 221b.

He needed to be better, he had told himself many times. He needed to regain Sherlock’s trust and forgiveness. Healing the rift, he knew, would help not only him but also help Sherlock, who was so changed by all that happened. John worried so much for the fragile heart he knew beat beneath Sherlock's chest that it felt sometimes as if his own were breaking.

 _But perhaps_ , John mused as he stood over Sherlock, who still slumbered on, _perhaps this is a good thing. Perhaps if he feels safe enough to sleep out here, and not out in his room, it means I’m doing better._

_And I need to do better for him. I need to take care of him._

_Well? It’s been two years since Mary died. Get the hell on with it._

A moment’s hesitation passed, then John moved. He bent down, prodded at the fire with the poker, and dropped a new log atop the smoldering embers. The wood caught, and a new flame climbed to spread its warm light across the flat. John stayed on his knees a moment, warming his hands and listening to the soft crackling and popping of the flame-eaten wood.

He stood at last, stretching his tired joints and turning. Sherlock's sleep was still undisturbed, but a sudden desire to protect him swept over John with a compelling, almost vicious force. So he reached for the blanket always draped across the back of his chair. He unfolded it, shaking it out a bit, then moved closer to Sherlock and draped the soft tartan across the man. John’s fingers tucked the corner behind Sherlock’s shoulders, smoothing the cloth as gently as he could manage.

Not gently enough, it appeared, for Sherlock chose that moment to become more aware of his own body again. He shifted, and a low groan issued from his throat.

“John?”

“Hey, you,” John murmured. “Go back to sleep.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock tugged at the blanket so it more securely rested under his chin. “When did you get in?”

“A couple minutes ago,” he replied. He felt a surge of affection for this man as he gazed down at him. Sherlock blinked sleepily but otherwise did not move. His eyes roved across John, but for once he did not speak his deductions aloud. He just let his lips spread into a tentative but undeniably sweet smile, as if welcoming John home from the long day.

“Fancy some tea?” John asked. He didn’t bother feeling embarrassed about the scrutiny, not after so long. “Or would you rather sleep some more?”

Sherlock yawned and glanced at the clock on the wall. “Tea is good,” he murmured.

John nodded and made his way into the kitchen, where he clicked on the kettle. Making tea was automatic at this point in his life, and allowed him to consider other things — the long day he’d had at work, Sherlock, his plans for the weekend, Sherlock, if there would be any new cases soon... and Sherlock. By the time the mugs were filled with the steaming drink, and with the correct amounts of sugar and milk respectively, John had to come to terms with the major preoccupation of his thoughts.

“Thank you,” that preoccupation murmured as John returned to the sitting room and passed him his tea.

John sat across from him, unable to stop the way his eyes drifted back to Sherlock, no matter where they had been looking before. Sherlock regarded him in return, though with more uncertainty, and John thought — though it was hard to tell in the low, golden firelight — that he might have been blushing.

“What is it?” Sherlock finally asked, staring into his tea.

“Nothing,” John said quickly.

After all, he could hardly just come out and say the truth: _It’s just hit me again, all this. I’ve realized I’m here, and you’re here, and for some reason you don’t hate me, and yet I’ve got no bloody idea where to go from here._

_I want to do right by you but it’s hitting me as if for the first time that I’ve no clue how to do that, even though it’s what you deserve._

“I’m just... wondering how you fit like that in your chair,” John continued.

Sherlock chuckled. While John had made tea, he had unraveled himself slightly, though the blanket was still draped over him. He didn’t reply, but instead said, “I dreamed about you, earlier.”

John fought down a blush. “Oh?”

“Yes, the first time we met, or a version of it, at least,” Sherlock said. His fingers danced along the rim of his cup, the handle. His eyes reflected the flickering fire. “I was in the lab at Bart's, and then Mike Stamford was there, and then... you.”

All at once, John felt he too was back there, watching an arrogant, captivating Sherlock make his way toward him, his hand outstretched for a proffered phone. A simpler time. Or perhaps simpler only because John now knew what awaited.

“What I wouldn’t give…” he murmured, the words slipping out of their own accord.

“To what?” Sherlock prodded.

“To go back there,” John admitted. “To... I don’t know, start again.”

Sherlock didn't reply for long moments, seemingly lost in thought. At last, he spoke, tone low and contemplative.

“I wouldn’t go back,” he murmured. “I think for me, instead of a second chance or some backwards sort of progress, it would be a regression.”

“How so?” John asked, surprised in spite of himself. He should have been used to Sherlock taking him aback, and yet...

“Because I would not want to forget... who I am now,” Sherlock said. “I feel that I... I am different, perhaps even better, and I would not change that. And I cannot bring myself to regret certain things... certain things _I_ have done.”

He might not have intended to place the emphasis where he had, but to John the distinction was clear: Sherlock did not regret the actions he had taken to protect his friends, but he did regret other things that have happened to him. 

He regretted things John had done to him.

John swallowed, pushed down the sour taste Sherlock’s words brought on. He forced himself to consider what else Sherlock said.

“You have changed,” he said with a nod. “You’re... I don’t know, kinder? Softer?”

Sherlock pulled a slight grimace, and John felt his lip tug upward in a small smile. “Well, okay, maybe you’re not quite to _that_ point yet,” he conceded, “but I doubt that if I met you for the first time now, I’d ever accuse you of being a machine, or heartless.”

Sherlock watched him a moment, as the words settled around them. John tightened his grip on his cup, wondering what Sherlock’s reaction would be.

“Perhaps it would be easier if I were a heartless machine,” he said, voice quiet and flatter than before. His gaze fixed on John, who felt the atmosphere shift around them, as if the very fabric of the universe were enveloping them. As if the world were pulling away until nothing remained save Sherlock, looking at John, looking at Sherlock.

And John set down his tea on the table beside his chair, slid to the floor between his seat and the other, and took Sherlock’s hand into his. “No,” he breathed, with heart pounding. “Don’t think like that.”

The moment was fragile, intimate. John could feel Sherlock’s skin, the calluses and marks and smoother spots of his hand. A lifetime’s damages and wounds and touches, etched into a palm and five slender digits. And beneath it all, a little lower where hand met limb, a heartbeat. John’s fingers wrapped around it, encasing that steady pounding as if by doing so, he could protect all that made up this man.

“It might be easier, Sherlock,” John said, and it suddenly felt urgent that Sherlock heard him, understood him. “Of course it’s easier not to hurt, not to feel any of the darkness, but... but you’re right. Who you are now…” His fingers tightened around his pulse, and his thumb rubbed at the place where his pulse was strongest. “Who you are now, I wouldn’t trade for all the happiness in the world.”

Sherlock blinked, a slow, thoughtful movement. Then, with deliberation and yet with hesitance, he set down his tea and let his hands come to rest on John’s cheeks. The lightest of touches, reverent and fascinated, brushed down from his cheeks to his jaw.

“Nor would I trade you, John, for anything.”

John frowned, and Sherlock pulled his hands away as he rocked back on his heels. “Why not?” he asked. Not quite a demand for answers, but nearly. “Wouldn’t you rather have me as I was before I let my emotions rule me so much I laid a hand on you? Or me as I was before Moriarty made me mourn you for two years? Or, hell, even me before Afghanistan? All those would be better than me now, because…” He huffed a sigh, running his hands harshly across his face. “Because who I am now is just a man who’s done too much to hurt you.”

The blanket gathered in a messy heap between them as Sherlock slid down from his chair to kneel before John. His hand found John’s again, but this time Sherlock was the one with his fingers around a wrist.

“But none of those versions of you would be here,” Sherlock whispered. “We’d both be on different paths if you were one of those men. We might still be friends, or we might not. We might not even know each other. I cannot envision any other scenario than the one we’ve lived in which we would both be here, like this.”

“Like what? Sitting here knowing we’ve broken each other?” John laughed helplessly, insincerely. “Sherlock, I got us kicked out of three restaurants and nearly broke your nose. Then I said such hurtful things, I... I turned you away time and time again after Mary... after Mary died… And then I… in the morgue, I hurt you so badly…” he stopped, swallowed. “I've been a terrible friend.”

“I faked my death and tried to pass it off as a joke,” Sherlock breathed. “I disregarded your feelings, and… got your wife killed.”

“I’ve told you, Mary’s death was because of her past, not because of you,” John insisted. Months had passed before John had been able to admit that truth to himself, and months more for him to say it to Sherlock. But he finally had sat the man down and told him it wasn’t his fault. Told him he was going back to therapy, working on managing his anger.

“And as for faking your death,” John continued, shaking off the memory, “your heart was in the right place.”

And it was as if the clouds rolled back and let in light, and warmth. So John squeezed Sherlock’s hand back. “Your heart’s always been in the right place.”

Sherlock stared down at their hands. “For you, John, yes.”

The words, though so quiet and hesitant, still managed to permeate into John's very bones. He knew now, what he had to do, what he should have been doing all along.

_Get the hell on with it. Take care of him._

“Hey.” He tried to catch Sherlock’s eye, and so slipped his fingers under his chin to tilt his head back up. “Do you mean that?”

Sherlock watched him, wary yet somehow hopeful. That look was enough to assure John that this was right, that this was what they needed.

“Sherlock,” he breathed. “Will you let me earn your forgiveness? Your trust again? Will... will you let me take care of you?”

He moved his hand from Sherlock’s chin to his jaw, cradling it gently. As he did, he felt Sherlock lean into the touch. The puff of his sigh against John’s skin was a vow, an acceptance of an offer, and a temptation all in one.

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered, seconds before he leaned in and pressed their lips together.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock kissed John as if he had been created for nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I have never written smut before. Please go easy on me. It isn't that graphic, and probably isn't even well written, but... here you go.

The kiss lasted forever, or so it seemed to John. For a long time, he let himself be lost in the feel of it — the sensation of Sherlock’s mouth sealed over his, of their hands on each other’s faces and shoulders and necks, of the calm intimacy that blossomed, certain and irrevocable, between them.

By the time he became more aware of himself, John had pressed Sherlock backwards so he was up against the leather armchair. They remained there for who knew how long precisely, kissing, unhurried, as if they’d done this many times. As if it were routine, expected, unextraordinary.

Sherlock kissed John as if he had been created for nothing else.

When at last they separated, John kept his eyes closed for a moment. The need to savour what had just happened was intense, as if the memory of the kiss sunk into his very soul, imploring—

_Do not forget this. Do not break this._

“John,” Sherlock breathed, and John opened his eyes.

Sherlock’s own eyes were wide in the light of the fire, his sharp cheekbones softened by the flickering gold. His lips parted a bit, breaths coming in harder than before.

“Sherlock,” John replied.

“I feel that this is a good time to tell you,” Sherlock murmured, gaze flicking down to the floor now, “that I’m… not a high-functioning sociopath. I’m not any type of sociopath, in fact.”

John let out a low laugh and moved close again to cradle Sherlock in his arms. “I know that, you daft git,” he whispered. “I’ve known that for a while now.”

“Good,” Sherlock said. He sagged into John’s touch with a sigh. But then, an instant later, he stiffened again. “I… erm, I don’t know how to do any of this.”

John stroked a hand down his arm. “That’s okay. I, well, I haven’t ever done this either. At least, not with a man.”

Sherlock looked up at him, a slight crease between his brows. John resisted the urge to kiss it. “But I thought… Sholto…?”

John shook his head, though his cheeks heated. “No. He and I never… did anything. I think we might have someday, but… it never felt like the right time or the right situation.”

“He _was_ your commanding officer.” Sherlock nodded, seeming to understand.

But John shook his head again. “It’s not even that. I… for a long time, I couldn’t really explain why I held back. I told myself it was because he was a man, and that I wasn’t ready to face that part of myself. But now I don’t think that was it.”

“Then why?” Sherlock tilted his head, and John was absurdly reminded of an inquisitive puppy. This time, unable to stop himself, he kissed Sherlock’s forehead.

“Because I think, without understanding it” — he paused, harrumphed at sharing so many private thoughts and emotions, then pressed on — “I somehow knew I was waiting for you.”

At that, a look John could only classify as wonder grew in Sherlock’s eyes. And before either of them could speak again, they were kissing once more.

Everything was needier this time, desperate. Sherlock clutched at John, dragging him in, and John gasped at the sensation of Sherlock’s tongue, questing for the inside of John’s mouth. His lips parted, and they both groaned as their tongues met.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, without warning overcome by the need to be closer, to be closer, to be closer. With Sherlock’s eager hands encouraging him, John climbed into his lap, straddling him, and they continued to kiss. Everything, all rational thought, drifted away in favour of simple feeling.

One hand tangled in Sherlock’s soft curls. The other wrapped around his back. He pulled his mouth away from Sherlock’s to latch onto his neck. Sherlock moaned and tilted his head back, giving John better access to that torturously delectable column of skin.

John found a spot, just above the collarbone, where a small freckle sat tantalizingly. He kissed it, then when Sherlock shivered, bit down on it lightly. Sherlock let out a veritable yelp in response, hands scrabbling at John’s back, his shoulders, his hips. John kept up his attentions on that freckle, though he was now smiling. He sucked on the spot he’d bit, laving his tongue over it. He’d never dreamed Sherlock would be so responsive, so sensitive.

Then again, Sherlock Holmes had always had a knack for surprising him.

“J-John…” he keened softly.

John eased off, sitting back and moving both his hands to Sherlock’s sides, in that dip just above his hips. Sherlock trembled below him, panting and still clinging to him.

“You okay?” John was well aware he was still very much in Sherlock’s lap, and that a rather insistent part of him was pressing against Sherlock’s lower belly. But he didn’t want to overwhelm Sherlock, either.

Sherlock released a long, shaky breath and nodded. “Y-you’re a good kisser,” he said, voice husky.

John chuckled, lifting his hands to rest upon Sherlock’s shoulders. “Thank you.”

“So why did you stop?” A hint of a petulant whine creeped into Sherlock’s voice and made John grin.

“Wanted to make sure you were alright.” John leaned forward so their noses knocked together. Sherlock smiled. “Are you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said after a beat. “This is… I never dreamed…” He swallowed, glancing down. “Well, perhaps I did _dream_ , but… I never thought it would become reality.”

John’s chest constricted, and he pulled Sherlock into a hug. “I’m sorry it took me so long. But… it is reality, now. You don’t have to just dream about this. I _want_ you. I want you in any way you’ll have me.”

Sherlock exhaled again, and John was relieved to notice he was a bit less trembly. “I do want you. In all the ways. I always have.”

The way he said it — cautious, earnest, and so damn vulnerable — nearly brought tears to John’s eyes. He blinked and managed to stop them just in time, and instead leaned forward so he could whisper his reply right into Sherlock’s mouth, as if in doing so, his words might reach Sherlock’s soul.

“You can have me. In all the ways.”

Sherlock’s next kiss tasted bright, somehow, like happiness had coalesced into a tangible flavour on his lips and tongue. They crashed back together, with even more urgency than before — though with less frenzy this time. They’d made these declarations now, and could take their time if they wanted.

That didn’t mean they _had_ to, though.

Heat blossomed between them rapidly. John returned his mouth to that freckle on Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock giggled breathlessly. “You like that spot,” he panted.

“I do, and I like how you like it too.” John flashed a cheeky grin at him before returning to work. His other hand moved lower, landing on Sherlock’s chest. His thumb found a nipple, and he rubbed it through the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock made a whimpering sound, hands gripping hard on John’s hips, then sliding back to his backside.

“Fuck!” John gasped.

Sherlock smirked. “Hush, we don’t want to wake Rosie.”

John wanted to scowl at him, but the mirth in Sherlock’s eyes was impossible to resist. So he laughed, softly, into the crook of his neck, then moved up to nip at his earlobe. “You’re right, sorry. But if you want me to keep quiet, you’ll have to be less tempting.”

“Oh, is that what I am? Tempting?”

John nodded. “Absolutely.”

“Hmm, I rather think that’s a term that more accurately suits you…”

John’s breath stuttered as Sherlock eased him closer, pressing their hips together. “Sherlock…” He made sure to whisper this time. “Can I…?”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered.

Their clothes ended up only partially shed — John’s jumper tossed onto his chair and his jeans tugged open, Sherlock’s t-shirt ripped off and his pyjama bottoms simply pushed down. That was enough, though, and John panted into Sherlock’s mouth as they rocked together. They were both still on the floor, John was still in Sherlock’s lap, and Sherlock was still leaning back against his armchair.

But at this point, John couldn’t care less about where this was happening.

“Sherlock,” he gasped before intertwining their tongues again.

“John,” Sherlock breathed into this kiss. He kept making soft noises, mewling and moaning and sighing. It was intoxicating, all of this, and heat pooled in John until he _ached_.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispered. Their rhythm had been slow up until this moment, and now as they both grew more desperate it shattered, becoming urgent and irregular. John shifted a little, and they moaned in unison.

“John!” Sherlock’s whisper was loud and harsh. “Please…”

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, cradling him, holding him. But it wasn’t close enough, and he squeezed him tighter. “I’ve got you, Sherlock. I’ve got you.”

Their kisses turned into half-gasps against each other’s mouths, and within moments Sherlock was shuddering his release, and John was following, and everything was golden light and trembling hips and clenching hands and Sherlock’s glowing eyes.

They remained curled up on the floor for several minutes, catching their breath. Finally, John rolled off Sherlock to the side, but Sherlock immediately pulled him in to his side.

John chuckled. “Not going to let me go?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No.”

John settled against his chest, deciding to clean them up later. This was too nice to give up just to fetch a flannel.

“John?” Sherlock asked after a few minutes. “What… what does this mean?”

He turned his head so he could see Sherlock’s face. He was flushed, eyes downcast, uncertainty radiating off of him in waves. John leaned up to kiss him, cradling his jaw, trying to pour his affection into it.

When they broke apart, John met his gaze. “I told you. I want to take care of you. I hope you don’t think this was a mistake, because I don’t. I should have kissed you years ago. Of course, maybe we weren’t ready then.”

Sherlock managed a small smile. “I did panic and tell you I was married to my work.”

“Panicked, huh?” John grinned. “Am I that intimidating?”

“You made me flustered,” Sherlock admitted. “I wasn’t used to being flirted with, if that’s what that was.”

John laughed. “Well, get used to it, Holmes.”

Sherlock’s smile faded, though he nodded. John, heart sinking, sat up straighter. “Hey,” he said. “I’ll back off, if you want. This, what just happened, doesn’t have to happen again. I know I have a lot to make up for, a lot of trust to earn back. We can go at your pace.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to his again, then away once more. “Thank you.” He sat up too, fidgeting. “I’ve wanted this for so long, John. I am loath at the thought of stopping it now, of taking it a step backward, simply because it happened fast. Simply because you and I have so much… so much to be dealing with.”

Now, he met and held John’s gaze. “Can we keep doing this? Even while we… work things through?”

Relief flooded through John, a balm and a shot of adrenaline all at once. “Yes,” he breathed, grasping at Sherlock’s hand. “Yes, of course. And I agree with you, there’s a lot to unpack together. And separately too. We can just… have fun, with this part of it, if you want.” He gestured between them, and Sherlock nodded even as he lifted an eyebrow at the mess on his stomach.

John laughed and did finally go find a flannel. He cleaned them both up, then glanced at Sherlock, who was watching with a soft expression. “Hey,” John murmured, reaching up to touch Sherlock’s face. “You know you’re the only one I want, right? I want this to work. I’ll work to make this work.”

Sherlock kissed him, those shapely lips seeming to fit unnaturally well against John’s. “Likewise, John.”

He pulled back then, yawning.

“Are you actually going to sleep?” John asked, teasing.

Sherlock scowled at him, though it was a look filled with affection. “I sleep.”

And he did, more often than not, these days. Another sign of how he had changed. So John stood, pulling Sherlock up with him. “Go to bed, you madman.”

Sherlock started to go, then paused, and looked at John over his shoulder. “Will you come with me?”

Amazed, John stared for a moment, then nodded.

A few minutes later, curled up in Sherlock’s bed, John wrapped an arm around him and told himself fiercely, _don’t you dare break this._

But then, an instant later, he thought — _you’ve already broken it. Time to fix things._

He had been the soldier, the fighter; it was time to be a doctor. Time to heal.

“Stop thinking, John, I’m trying to sleep.”

“Sorry, Sherlock.”

And he fell asleep smiling.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’d like to be allowed to see everything you are, John thought.

When the morning arrived, John didn’t want to open his eyes. This bed was too comfortable, too warm, too full of Sherlock. Why would he ever want to move?

Then, a nudge.

“John.”

Another nudge.

“I know you’re awake. Your breathing increased in both depth and speed.”

John smiled and rolled onto his side, reaching out for Sherlock without opening his eyes. “And good morning to you too.”

Sherlock’s hand came to rest on John’s hip. “Good morning.”

His voice was a little hoarse, still a little sleepy. The sound of it made John open his eyes. One side of Sherlock’s face partially hidden by the pillow, his hair was a disaster, and there was the ghost of stubble on his cheek.

He looked perfect.

“So.” John yawned. “Yesterday happened.”

Sherlock’s face made an odd twisting movement, like a spasm but clearly due more to emotions than any physical stimulus. “It did.” His words lifted ever so slightly, as if he questioned them.

“I’m glad,” John whispered.

Relief made Sherlock’s eyes gleam. “As am I.”

John shifted closer, placing his head on Sherlock’s pillow so he could be near enough to kiss him. And for a few minutes, everything was morning breath and stubble and bed-warm skin. And it was all glorious.

By the time they broke apart, they were more awake. Sherlock’s eyes flickered over John’s face in appraisal. John lay there and let him observe and deduce, relaxed. Even if Sherlock didn’t believe it yet, John knew — this would be how he woke up every morning for the rest of his life. Assuming there wasn’t a case on.

“I have a question,” Sherlock declared.

“Yeah?” John met his gaze, brushing an especially unruly lock of hair off Sherlock’s forehead.

Sherlock worried at his lip a moment before speaking. “Why now? What made you decide to kiss me last night? To talk about all the things we’ve been talking about?”

“Well, let me remind you, you kissed me first.” John smirked and was rewarded with a light blush bursting to life on Sherlock’s cheeks. They both sobered quickly, though, and John just watched him for a moment. His eyes had flecks of gold in them; John had never been close enough to notice before.

“I’m not sure why last night, really,” he admitted. “I could say something like the stars must have aligned" — Sherlock snorted, and John nodded in agreement — “but we both know that’s not true. I guess… maybe I just got tired of waiting for the right time.”

_And maybe_ , he thought, _coming home to find you asleep in that chair made me think about doing that everyday. I’d like to be allowed to see you asleep. And to see you happy, and sad, and scared, and bored, and in love._

_I’d like to be allowed to see everything you are._

“So I made it the right time,” he concluded.

Something about Sherlock’s smile told John that maybe his omission was not as hidden as he’d hoped. Maybe Sherlock knew him so well by now that he knew what John was thinking. It wouldn’t be the first time, after all, that John thought Sherlock could read minds.

“Well,” Sherlock murmured. “I… I hope it continues to be the right time.”

There was a tinge of concern under the nonchalance, and it spurs John forward to tug Sherlock into his arms. “It will, Sherlock,” he whispered fiercely. “It wasn’t an impulse I acted on last night. I told you, I want to be with you in every way, and I will work for this.”

He remembered last night, the look on Sherlock’s face when he’d whispered, “ _I do want you. In all the ways. I always have_.” He remembered holding him close, feeling the heat blossom on their skin, and thinking they had forever now. They’d made it.

He wanted so badly for that to be true.

“Even after…” Sherlock swallowed, “everything that’s happened?”

It seemed that since last night, the doubt had crept in. John understood — this was a big change, and after everything they’d been through…

Moriarty. The fake suicide. The two years apart.

Sherlock tackled to the floor of a restaurant. The bomb on the Tube.

Mary. The wedding. The news of the baby.

The bullet in Sherlock’s chest. Magnussen. The tarmac and the goodbye that should have been so much more.

Rosie. Mary’s death. Shutting Sherlock out. Culverton Smith. The morgue.

Of course one night together wouldn’t fix all that.

“Yes,” John said. “Even after everything. And because of everything. Of course I want you.”

Sherlock frowned. Clearly, the idea would have to be reinforced — the idea that Sherlock was all John wanted and needed. Well, that task would be a pleasure.

For the moment, though, John contented himself with kissing him. “Come on, you darling, daft thing. Rosie will be awake soon. How about some breakfast?”

Sherlock looked bewildered at the unconventional endearment, but not as if he didn’t like it. “Alright,” he said.

Sure enough, as they got up and located pyjama bottoms to wear — Sherlock wordlessly handing John spares to borrow — sounds drifted down to them from the upstairs bedroom. Sherlock’s eyes lit up, and he swept out of the room the moment his clothes were on. John watched, feeling warm. He’d never been this content with Mary, hadn’t felt this way since… well, since before Moriarty had sent Sherlock, arms pinwheeling, off a roof.

“Come on, Watson,” Sherlock was saying, coming back within earshot. “Are you hungry?”

“I want oat-mill!” Rosie replied. Her small voice was still sleepy, and John was abruptly glad that she didn’t have school and he didn’t have work today. They could all just relax.

He joined them in the kitchen, his two favourite people. Sherlock was already moving about the room, swinging Rosie out of his arms into her chair. She sat agreeably, watching with a rapt expression as Sherlock started preparing Rosie’s oatmeal while simultaneously putting the kettle on and whisking eggs for omelettes. She grinned at John when he pressed a good morning kiss to the top of her head.

“Morning, darling girl.”

“Hi, Daddy.” She turned her attention to the spoon Sherlock had set in front of her, tapping it on the arm of her chair.

Thrilled that he was allowed to do this now, John stepped up behind Sherlock and wrapped his arms about Sherlock’s slender form.

“Hello there,” Sherlock sounded surprised but pleased.

“Hi,” John smiled against his back.

“Are you going to help, or cling to me like a useless limpet?”

And when John laughed, Sherlock joined in.

* * *

Life with Sherlock wasn’t always easy, but it did get _easier_.

Especially early on John had to fight a bit to make progress, had to claw with some desperation through Sherlock’s defenses. The detective was often still caustic and stubborn and kept his emotions at arm’s length out of fear. But John reminded himself constantly, trying hard to believe it, that change did not occur overnight.

But one night, a month after the night in front of the fireplace, Sherlock woke sobbing from a nightmare. A story followed, mumbled into John’s chest — a cell in Serbia, and a wish for death, and a long history of self-hate leading to that moment, believing he deserved this. By the end of the tale, Sherlock wasn’t the only one with tears dampening his face, but that was alright.

John grew braver, too. Slowly, carefully, over time, he told of how he’d been the two years Sherlock was gone. How he’d doubted everything about himself, about his friendship with Sherlock, how he’d railed at himself for missing the signs of Sherlock’s depression.

At that, Sherlock admitted he wasn’t truly depressed until _after_ the roof. Hoping to make Sherlock feel less alone, John told him of his own problems, his fears that he would succumb to the darkness he knew lurked inside him. 

“You aren’t darkness, John,” Sherlock whispered. “You _have_ darkness, as we all do. But it isn’t all you are.”

They lay on the sofa together for an hour after that, just holding and soaking in each other’s presence.

They both went to therapy, between work and cases. Some days were better than others, of course; some days Sherlock didn’t move off the sofa and some days John was moody and snappish. But other days were filled with kisses and smiles and teamwork and gentleness.

And life got better.

* * *

Rosie grew. Her hair tumbled to her shoulders in golden waves. Her hands reached for everything but mostly for her fathers’ hands.

When she reached for Sherlock, he swept her into his arms, flew her about the flat, helped her onto a stool next to him in front of the microscope, plopped her onto her bed as she squealed with laughter. He told her about bees and flowers and natural cycles of change. He read to her, book after book after book, and John saw the voices he created for each character cementing in her mind as their _true_ voices. She grew up hearing Sherlock in all those stories.

When she reached for John, he pulled her into hugs and wrapped her in coats and pushed her on the swings. He gave her books and toys and as many cuddles as she wanted. He watched cartoons and princess films and nature shows with her until she fell asleep on his lap. He drew pictures with her in the margins of newspapers and on the back of her homework and sometimes in Sherlock’s scientific notebooks. As her skills developed into an actual knack for art and writing, he saw his influence in her love for mystery and rugged beauty.

The cases continued, but in a different way. Sherlock wasn’t the same after the gunshot, and spent many hours in sterile rooms getting scans and prescriptions, dealing with breathing and renal problems, unforeseen trauma resulting from Mary’s bullet. Sherlock barely talked about it, but in his eyes, John saw acceptance.

And, slowly, he healed.

Still, field work dwindled, then stopped altogether. Researching, reviewing CCTV footage, interrogating suspects, examining crimes scenes continued — but no more chases.

“We have a daughter to think about,” Sherlock said when John asked if he was okay with it all. “I would be heartless if I didn’t think of her. Besides,” he rushed on, as if to cover up the lapse into sentiment, “you’re slowing down, old man. I would be quite rude to expect you to keep up with me forever.”

John laughed, even though he knew Sherlock was teasing, was actually relieved at the lessened danger.

In fact, one day, during a quiet moment in the break room at Scotland Yard, Sherlock put his hand over John’s. “I just need the puzzles, not the chase, John. I have adventure enough with you and Rosie.”

Another day, he spoke about a distant dream, one he’d never harbored in his younger, more reckless years — a small cottage overlooking green fields and the gray-blue sea, with beehives and a vegetable garden. A place just for him and John, where Rosie would visit between school terms and on bank holidays. A retirement, a quieter life.

And John — perhaps as his hair got greyer — found that the itch for adrenaline and violence and action no longer plagued him either. He no longer thought of seeking justice through fists and guns, but through a case ended safely, a mystery solved with little fuss. Through an evening ending how it always should have: with a kiss to Rosie’s forehead and with a Sherlock in his arms.

And the idea of the cottage now dwelled in his mind, too, promising and warm. Waiting until it was time for life to move in that direction.

Not yet, because for now, life was Baker Street. And life was better.

* * *

The words “I love you” were a surprisingly long time in coming. Rosie was six (and a quarter, as she would insist on reminding them whenever her age was mentioned) when they finally arrived.

“Daddy, do you love Papa Sherlock?” She didn’t look up from her colouring sheet as she spoke, but across the sitting room, Sherlock’s head whipped up from his laptop. Not at the title, which Rosie had bestowed on him months ago — fluctuating between “Papa,” “Sherlock,” and “Papa Sherlock” at random — but at the question.

John stared at her, determined not to look at Sherlock yet. “Of course I do, honeybee.” That was a nickname coined by Sherlock, which had instantly caught on among everyone else who knew Rosie. “Why?”

“Is he your Valentine?”

Ah yes, it was February, John remembered. A few days ago, Rosie had brought home a form to fill out concerning her food allergies, in preparation for a small Valentine’s celebration.

Trying to remain calm, John smiled at her. “If he wants to be.”

“Papa!” she shouted, as if Sherlock were a mile away. “Do you want to be Daddy’s Valentine?”

Sherlock hesitated before replying. “What if I want to be _your_ Valentine?”

“No!” Rosie shrieked with the laugh that meant one of her fathers was saying something especially silly. “That’s not how it works! Your Valentine is someone you love!”

“Well, I love _you_ , Rosie,” Sherlock said earnestly. The sound of that sentence, spoken so casually, practically shattered John’s universe, even though it was not the first time he’d heard Sherlock tell her that. (The first time, John had nearly burst into tears.)

“That’s different,” Rosie insisted. “You and Daddy are mushy.”

“Oh, is that the distinguishing factor? People who date are mushy?” Sherlock grinned. They’d settled on telling Rosie they date, as neither had been particularly enamoured of the term “boyfriend.”

“Yes,” Rosie nodded.

“Ah, I see. Well, are only mushy people Valentines?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t you give out Valentines in class?”

Rosie sighed. John watched, as if observing a tennis match, as the two went back and forth. Rosie’s ability to formulate and express her opinion seemed advanced amongst her age group, no doubt thanks to her papa. “That’s different. It’s… for fun. Pretend. Kids have Friend Valentines ’cause they love each other. Grown-ups have Mushy Valentines ’cause they Love each other.” Her ability to make capital letters audible — also undoubtedly inherited from Sherlock.

“I see.” Sherlock chuckled. “Well, in that case, yes, I am Daddy’s Mushy Valentine.”

“Mmm.” Rosie looked satisfied, though far too calm about this groundbreaking development. She dug through her box of crayons, apparently oblivious to John’s pounding heart.

That night, after Rosie fell asleep halfway through _Stellaluna_ , John wrapped Sherlock up in his arms, right there on the landing outside Rosie’s room.

“Have we not said it?” he asked into the crook of Sherlock’s neck.

“I suppose not. Though it feels as if we do all the time.”

John pulled back and gazed up at him, barely visible in the dim light of Rosie’s nightlight. “I love you, Sherlock.”

“I love you, John.”

It was so easy to say, which was how John knew that yes, life was better.

* * *

And so life went on.

Lestrade was promoted to DCI, then some years later, retired at sixty-five. His farewell party was the loudest, wildest one seen by Scotland Yard in decades.

Donovan took over the department, and developed more than a grudging respect for Sherlock. John watched, incredulous, one day after a particularly grueling case wrapped, when Donovan smiled, clapped Sherlock’s shoulder, and asked him and John out for drinks.

Mrs. Hudson vowed to never die, and John silently held her to that. She stayed just below them in flat A, a steady presence they’d always needed, providing tea and scones and sound advice and love, always love.

Mycroft was his usual self, though the devotion to Rosie was unexpected. Sherlock had wept — in secret, alone in the bedroom with John, of course — when Mycroft had handed him not only the adoption papers but a fund for her to go to university. Having a man in government in the family was useful.

Sherlock’s parents continued doting on them all, attending every one of Rosie’s school events. They split holidays between Baker Street and Sherlock’s childhood home, and both felt equally warm.

Molly married a funny, gorgeous surgeon. Sherlock played the violin at the wedding, and this time, he did dance with John.

Life was better. Life was, in fact, good.

* * *

Rosie’s tenth birthday came and went.

The night after, once the streamers and balloons and general party detritus was finally cleared away completely, John collapsed into bed next to Sherlock. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

“I can’t believe she’s ten.”

“And a day,” Sherlock smirked. Rosie had been telling them this all day.

“How long do you think she’ll keep that up?”

“Considering the stubbornness she’s inherited from her father, I’d wager three hundred sixty four days.”

“Oh, shut up, smart arse!”

Sherlock laughed as John whacked him with a pillow. They settled down, exchanging a few kisses but still too worn from the festivities of the day before to take things further. A half dozen ten-year-olds would suck the energy out of anyone.

“Sherlock,” John murmured. His nerves — which he’d been able to ignore during the party — were gaining ground on his forced calm. He’d planned this, rehearsed it in his head multiple times, but with the moment approaching, the anxiety was returning.

“Hmm?”

John reached under his pillow and pulled out the ring box.

Sherlock stiffened. A long moment passed during which neither of them moved. Then, with trembling fingers, Sherlock reached out, took the box in hand, and opened it.

Two gleaming rings sat nestled inside. Sherlock pulled the larger one out and examined it.

“Hammered titanium,” he whispered. “John…”

“I know you’re already Rosie’s adoptive father,” John said. “I know we don’t need paperwork to tell us what we are to each other. But…”

“Just because we don’t need it doesn’t mean we don’t want it,” Sherlock said, seeming to surprise them both.

“So you _do_ want this?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You bought rings but weren’t sure of my answer?”

John flushed and shrugged. “I… hoped.”

“Well,” Sherlock’s eyes glinted in that way they always did when he teased John. “I can’t exactly answer something that hasn’t been asked.”

“You really want me to spell it out for you? I thought you were supposed to be a genius.” John smiled at him. Teasing was good, teasing was encouraging.

But the mischievous sparkle faded, then, and Sherlock’s tone went serious. “John. Ask me. Please, I… I want to hear it.”

And John’s heart fluttered as he reached out, took the ring from Sherlock’s hand, and held it out between them.

“Sherlock Holmes, my love, will you marry me?”

Sherlock beamed. “Obviously.”

Life wasn’t just better — it was wonderful.

* * *

Two weeks later, they went to the registry office, bringing Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, and Sherlock’s parents. Rosie wore a purple dress and grinned the whole time. They all went to Baker Street after, and laughed when Rosie insisted she join the first dance with her fathers.

That night, after the flat was dark and quiet, Rosie with Molly for the night, Sherlock knelt in front of the fireplace. His ring twinkled as he struck a match and lit the wood. Crackling light illuminated the sitting room, making his eyes gleam with happiness.

John watched, sipping the last of the champagne, as Sherlock stepped over to the desk and pulled up something on his laptop. Soft violin music poured out of it.

“I know this,” John said. “It’s one of yours.” He’d heard it many times over the years, and it was one of his favourites.

Sherlock nodded, a little shyly. “I never told you, but… I wrote it for you.”

John’s heart squeezed in his chest. He set down his empty glass and stood, glad he wasn’t too tipsy to do this. He held out his hand. “Dance with me?”

Sherlock’s arms came around him. “Obviously.”

They swayed and spun and smiled. John met his gaze and suddenly remembered that night, years ago, when he had looked at Sherlock in firelight and taken a risk.

Now, he danced with that man who was the same but so different. And now, that man was his husband.

_I’ve got the rest of my life to take care of you_ , John thought as Sherlock twirled him, then pulled him back to his chest, both of them laughing. _I’d better get on with it. We’ve still got so much to do._

Yes, life hadn’t been perfect. But it was better now. And it wasn’t over yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this! Like I said in my note in chapter 1, I started this a year ago and then forgot about it. But, considering the current pandemic situation, I've been going through some of my old documents and seeing what in there is worth posting. So hopefully I'll get some old/new-to-readers stuff posted soon! I hope everyone is taking care of themselves. Stay safe, and stay strong.


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